4th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj
"Hold still," the surgeon snarled.
The creature strapped down on the table was in no condition to obey. Despite being restrained with two leather straps on each limb, one around its waist and one around its forehead, it was still able to writhe about slightly, and continued to do so.
It comprehended nothing that the surgeon had said. The unrelenting pain of the operation had driven it insane.
It couldn't scream. Its vocal cords lay in a bucket of blood at the foot of the table, along with its right hand and several pieces of skin that had been cut from its body.
Despite the numerous mutilations that had been performed on its person, the creature was not bleeding, except in one area. A faint network of pink scars ran across the pale white flesh of its naked form, crisscrossing in many areas.
The creature's mouth had been cut open on its right side to within two inches of its right ear. This had been done mainly so that the surgeon could insert both hands into its mouth.
At the moment, the surgeon was attempting to sew a small ball of foreign matter to the inside of the creature's cheek but was finding it extremely difficult to do so. Despite the extra room, there was still no room for the surgeon to see inside. Blood dribbled out of the deformed mouth and down the creature's neck.
"Would you stop?" The surgeon yanked the creature's head so as to glare directly into its eyes, despite knowing there was nothing left there but madness. "I'm trying to improve you- can't you understand that?"
The creature's body convulsed briefly, or at least as much as was possible under its restraint. Then its eyes rolled up to the back of its head, and it went limp.
"Oh, not again," the surgeon muttered, turning around and reaching over to a small workbench, on which was scattered numerous vials, beakers and flasks, many of them empty. A small vial of milky white liquid was snatched off a holder and poured into the supine creature's mouth, the surgeon massaging the liquid down its throat. After a moment, the creature gasped and started shaking again.
The surgeon reached back inside the creature's mouth and pulled out the small ball with one hand while picking up a bloody scalpel with the other, frowning all the while. "Do you know how much it costs to work on subjects like you? Subjects who won't cooperate?"
A large set of double doors about twenty feet from the surgeon's operating theater abruptly began to open. Seven pairs of goblinoid eyes looked over to the doors. The surgeon's gaze, however, did not move from the subject.
The doors opened, and Blackthorn came in.
The gaunt man blinked as he entered. The numerous continual flames that illuminated the laboratory were not blinding, but the corridor leading up to this room was pitch-black, so it took his sunken gray eyes a moment to adjust. His loose chain shirt swishing as he walked, he slowly approached the table on which the unfortunate creature lay.
Blackthorn's mouth tightened. The subject had probably once been a male human, although that was admittingly a guess. It's right hand had been removed and replaced with a minor's pick, and its left hand looked as if it had been stretched out on a rack several times past the point of breaking and then healed, so now it was about half again its original length.
The tall man allowed himself an momentary expression that spoke of disgust, if not sympathy. He then turned his attention towards the surgeon that stood next to the table. Blackthorn bowed slightly, smiling. Belying the ashen gray color of his skin, his teeth were a brilliant white, and all in suspiciously perfect condition.
"Markessa."
The elf looked up at him.
Markessa was small even by high elven standards, standing perhaps four and a half feet tall. Her skin was perhaps a shade paler than the elven norm, and her hair sparkled golden in the reflection of the continual flames. Her amber eyes were even more almond-shaped than most elves, giving her the appearance, Blackthorn thought, of being from Kara-Tura herself or at least of having a human ancestor from there. She wore a bloodstained smock over studded leather armor.
She dipped her eyes momentarily, but her own expression spoke of little beyond repressed loathing. "Blackthorn."
Blackthorn was not carrying his polearm, but his long, bony fingers were holding a small, leather-bound ledger. He brushed away a buzzing fly with his free hand, and then assumed a subservient pose that irritated Markessa all the more because she knew it was false.
"It is over, my lady."
Markessa seemed to spend a few moments composing herself, and then looked up at Blackthorn's skull-like face again. "How many of them escaped?"
The cadaverous man shrugged, exaggerating his already unusual posture. "We'd had no sighting of the one called Aslan for some time, so his status is unknown. The fighter they called Elrohir was still petrified from Icar's medusa, so we assume they had no magic available to cure him. The other six took him with them when they fled."
Markessa eyed Blackthorn steadily now, all the while tapping her scalpel against the surface of the operating table.
"Let me see if I understand this. Six humans, including at least two I had been told had died, and all of them allegedly at death's door, managed to flee the stockade while carrying the petrified form of another one of their own, pretty much under your very nose. Is that fairly accurate, Blackthorn? Or does your account differ dramatically from what I have been told by others?"
Blackthorn glanced around momentarily. The goblins on the balcony that ran around the laboratory on three sides studiously avoided his gaze, as did the goblins and the lone hobgoblin female that stood near Markessa. The giant seemed unconcerned, however. His smile did not waver.
"Indeed, Markessa. It is most unfortunate that I had to expend my best abilities trying to restore order topside. It would have been a further waste of life to confront them while so weakened."
"And how did they get away carrying a goddamned statue?" Markessa hissed.
"Unknown, my lady," Blackthorn replied nonchalantly. "I have of course dispatched hunting parties, each equipped with a boggle. And yet..."
"And yet what?" the elf asked through gritted teeth.
"While I have no doubt the boggles can track down our quarry, their hobgoblin handlers might be reluctant to confront the humans after losing so many of their number to them." Blackthorn shrugged again. "I'm afraid we have been dealt a very serious blow." His sunken eyes carried the hint of a smile. "I am somewhat surprised that you heard none of the combat above, my dear lady. Covered up by screams, no doubt." He indicated the wretch on the table.
Markessa either missed or ignored the tone in Blackthorn's voice.
"I really should just cut out their vocal cords at the beginning," she mused. "It would save time." She looked thoughtful for a moment, and then turned her attention back to the large figure standing before her. "How many did we lose?"
Blackthorn's grim expression was all too real. "Pretty much everyone. Captain Stalworth, Leiutenant Kairn, the tenebra complexor-"
Markessa gave him a puzzled look. Blackthorn sighed and continued. "The, um, cloaker," he grimaced. "Commander Icar, of course-"
"That's a damn shame," Markessa said softly, looking away. "He was a good man, and loyal."
Blackthorn raised an inquisitive eyebrow just in time to meet the elf's return gaze. "We are all loyal, my dear lady."
Markessa stared coldly at the giant for a moment.
"Yes, Blackthorn," she said at last. "Of course you are." She forced a polite look back onto her face, while raising an eyebrow of her own. "By the way, Blackthorn, I heard that all three of the wereboars were slain, as well. Where are your three friends?" she finished with only the trace of a sneer.
The thin man smiled casually. "Oh, they're on leave." He waved a large hand absently in the air. "Tonight's a very special night for them, but I daresay they're not far off." His dazzling smile returned as his eyes focused above the elf's head. "And where is your bullish friend tonight, Markessa?"
"Around," was the curt reply. "Do you think I need him by my side, Blackthorn? I thought you said the danger was over."
"As long as these humans survive, my lady, there is always the possibility of sudden danger."
Markessa looked as if she wanted to come up with a sharp retort, but just couldn't. She eventually just sighed and said, "Continue."
Blackthorn crossed his arms behind his back and did so. "Every single sergeant except Herash, about four dozen hobgoblins, three or four goblins, and sadly, Gulyet."
"What?" Markessa snapped, her eyes growing wide. She hadn't heard about that.
Blackthorn merely shrugged again.
Fury twisted the elf's face. "Damn it!" she shrieked, burying the scalpel in her hand deep within her patient's chest. It jerked spasmodically; it's deformed mouth hopelessly trying to scream, before abruptly going still forever underneath a final pool of blood.
Blackthorn was not easily unnerved. This action did so, although he quickly recovered his composure. Markessa noticed but brushed it off.
"He wasn't working out anyway." She dismissed the corpse with a wave of her hand. "How did this happen?" Her voice was still raised. The elf, apparently staring off at a far corner of the room at something Blackthorn couldn't see, suddenly whirled back around to face the giant.
"Who are these people, Blackthorn?" Markessa demanded. "You said earlier that they're the same group that nearly wiped out the Highport complex. I know you've been asking questions. Tell me what you've found out. I want to know who these humans are!"
The tall, skinny man looked thoughtful. "We still believe them to be mercenaries from Furyondy, except for the Oeridian female. She is a member of the Azure Order, and we presume, the leader of this band. Her name," he hesitated slightly, "is Nesco Cynewine."
Markessa eyed him impatiently. "Is that name supposed to mean something to me?"
Again that perfect smile made an appearance. "As you may recall my mentioning at the time, five months ago a band of seven Knights of Furyondy attempted to enter the Highport temple. They were detected beforehand by Blucholtz's forces. Five of the seven were killed, one escaped, and one was taken captive." His gray eyes locked onto the elf's amber ones. "The captive's name was Sir Miles Cynewine. Husband or brother or some such to this Nesco, I would assume. He was delivered here and placed under your tender mercies." The last two words dripped with sarcasm.
Markessa was silent for a moment, searching her memories. Then the elf grunted softly. "Ah, yes. I remember." She glanced briefly towards the rear of the laboratory. Another door was situated in the left wall, near the back end. "Wound up going to the caves, as I recall," she said quietly.
"My guess is that King Belvor decided to send a band of mercenaries with his precious knight this time around. The ones called Argo and Elrohir are of course warriors, though of no mean skill, as we've seen to our sorrow," Blackthorn continued, glossing over Markessa's memories. "The Kara-Turan, Tojo, is of course a samurai."
That drew back Markessa's attention. "I'd always wondered if there really were more of them," she said with a bitter smile, "or if Icar was just having us on." The elf frowned. "With such fighters at their disposal, I'm surprised that Kara-Tur hasn't invaded and conquered the Flanaess by now."
Blackthorn shrugged, clearly not interested in the thought. "They have two magic-users, Zantac and Cygnus, the latter particularly powerful. The Suloise female is a priestess, although of no god we've heard of." The cadaverous figure took a deep breath, although it was hard to tell. "The other one, Aslan, is most interesting. He seems and acts the fighter, yet we have numerous eyewitness reports of him polymorphing and teleporting." He now smiled his skull-smile again. "It is possible that this Aslan is one of those exceedingly rare individuals who can function as both warrior and arcanist," he finished with another bow at the elf before him. "Imagine that."
Markessa did not return the smile. She continued to glare at him.
"Of course," Blackthorn added as he straightened up, "we cannot be sure of this. If this Aslan is indeed such an accomplished shapechanger, who can say for sure what his natural form might be?"
Now the elf finally smiled, although it was cruel and devoid of any real mirth.
"Someone who goes around polymorphed all the time, in a form not their own?" she shot at Blackthorn. "Imagine that."
Blackthorn's smile vanished. His mouth tightened again, but he said nothing.
After a moment, Markessa spoke again. "Bring me a piece of these people. Tattered clothing, pieces of armor, anything that will aid in scrying."
The tall man nodded.
"Well, there's no sense in crying over what's happened," Markessa continued. "We have to rebuild."
She seemed about to say something more, but Blackthorn noticed the elf's eyes wandering around the room, as if she were tracking something. Another frown appeared on her slender face.
"My lady? Are you all right?" His expression of concern real or feigned, Blackthorn seemed at least curious.
Markessa seemed to be trying to capture a thought that remained just out of reach. "Yes," she said at length. "I thought I felt- something. No matter," she continued, shaking her head clear. "Send messages to the appropriate goblin and hobgoblin chiefs in the hills. We'll need replacement sergeants and soldiers. I'll also need another apprentice. I'd like a goblin, if possible."
The goblins in the laboratory smiled and returned to their tasks of cleaning and straightening. The hobgoblin female responded to Markessa's hand gesture and slung the dead subject over her shoulder and headed towards the rear door.
"Also, contact Highport," the elf continued. "Have Rezshk tell whatever buffoon he's installed as figurehead to send us more officers- the best he's got."
Blackthorn's frown deepened as he held up the ledger he carried. "All this will be tremendously expensive, my lady," he intoned dolefully. "Our esteemed bookkeeper Kyvin Trist has supplied me with some preliminary figures, and I must say the replacements you request will cause yet more red liquid to flow; red ink in this case," he finished, unable to repress a small smile.
"I expect my treasurer and my bookkeeper to be able to handle that." Markessa scowled.
Blackthorn bowed again, but his smile remained. "Of course, my lady, but this does beg the important question."
Those amber eyes were waiting for the tall humanoid as he straightened up again. Blackthorn paused for what he considered the most effective interval.
"Do we contact- The Nine?"
Markessa folded her arms across her chest and glared at Blackthorn again. "And why would we do that?" the elf asked, every syllable loaded with ice.
The giant man arced an eyebrow. "We have lost the tenebra- excuse me, the cloaker," he stated. "We're certainly not capable of acquiring another one on our own-"
"We got along just fine before we got the cloaker," cut in Markessa. "We'll do just fine without one again."
Blackthorn's smile, if possible, grew still larger. "Indeed, my lady, I doubt not. However, according to Trist, the cloaker alone was responsible for a 35% reduction in our slave processing costs. Without a replacement, the difference will be noticeable enough for The Nine to contact us- and I daresay we do not desire a contact initiated in that fashion."
Markessa drummed her fingers on the surface of the operating table for a few moments before looking back up again at Blackthorn. When she did so, the elf's face had lost any pretense of courtesy.
"I will contact Suderham myself," she seethed. "That is how it was arranged."
Blackthorn bowed again. "Of course, my lady. And now if you will excuse me. The fortress itself sustained some minor damage here and there during this unfortunate incident. Carlstar Wiorfether should have his repair estimate ready for me by now. I do hope it will not be too distressing." The gaunt man moved back towards the double doors. Just as he opened them again, he turned around one more time. Markessa was still glaring at him.
"Tell me, Markessa," queried Blackthorn. "I don't believe I've ever asked you. Are you particularly religious?"
If possible, the elf's expression soured even more, although a trace of that bitter smile returned. "Been speaking with Mordrammo again?"
Blackthorn said nothing, his skull-like face settling into a neutral expression. Markessa raised her hands in the air.
"Why not?" she cried out with a short laugh. "Perhaps the Earth Dragon will send us a sign!"
Blackthorn smiled one last time.
"Even better, my lady. Perhaps the Earth Dragon will send them a sign."
He left, quietly closing the doors behind him.
Markessa stared at the closed doors for a while. She was aware of her goblin servants bustling about, trying to keep busy while avoiding her glare.
She considered. For all that she loathed Blackthorn, his last statement had been encouraging. Why not, indeed? Perhaps this situation could be salvaged yet, as long as she stayed alert- and one step ahead of Blackthorn.
And at least that odd feeling that she had earlier of being watched was gone.